All For Naught
by SaraHelen
Summary: Draco Malfoy does not want to be Harry Potter's friend. He wants to be so much more. And when he finally works up the nerve to tell him? Harry... runs. Nothing can ever be the same; but maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. DMxHP, oneshot.


**_This story awoke me at five in the morning, the words flying out of my fingers faster than I could get them down. I felt their emotions like my own, erupting from my heart like some sort of teary volcano. Oh, yes, I cried for this story. __I can't promise you will cry. You probably won't. Draco is just a stubborn bastard and I am more attached to these characters than I should be. _**

* * *

"Tell me to stay," you whisper, grey eyes meeting green in the dim light. "Tell me to stay, and that we can be friends-"

Harry cuts you off with a swift shake of his head.

That was all you needed to know.

You stand, refusing to look at Harry, grab your coat and set a galleon down on the counter of the bar. You don't look at Harry as you turn and leave, and you do not look back.

Maybe, maybe if you hadn't told Harry how you felt, you could have been friends. Maybe Harry wouldn't have turned you away.

But maybe this was best.

Because, of course, loving Harry Potter, having him always right by your side but never close enough, is torture. You couldn't pull him closer. Couldn't bring yourself to ever do it, to ever just brush a piece of fucking hair out of his face. You were convinced that if you did he would _know_, and years of friendship and trust and forgiveness would all be for naught.

But you told him anyway.

In a moment of weakness, you broke, and you told him and fucked up everything, and now you had to go away.

You hoped that, maybe, your love for Potter would gradually shrink away until it was gone, and maybe one day you would seek him out, and you would fall back into an easy friendship, one without longing or pain or unrequited declarations of love.

You feel a tug on the back of your robes and you turn, almost convinced that it had been the wind.

But no, there was Potter, standing there panting, asking you why you had left, and didn't you hear him calling for you?

You shake your head and wait for this to be over, wait for him to tell you how horrible he thinks that you are, but the words don't come.

He just stares at you, and you stare right back, because after all, Harry Potter did not have a monopoly on the staring business.

You open your mouth to tell him this, and in a instant he has grabbed the front of your robes and pulled you fast to him, your mouth meeting his in something that did not seem like a kiss at all. Your teeth clashed together painfully, and the soft lips you had many a night dreamt about were a hard, unforgiving line.

You pull back, or rather push him away, and he stares at you confused, like a lost puppy, as if you had been the only one present for what had just happened.

You intend to say nothing, to let him explain, but your mouth betrays you. You ask him why he followed you, why he would do this to you.

You say that you didn't think that he could be this cruel, and that he should leave you alone, you won't bother him anymore.

You take a step back from him, but he stumbles, in both steps and words, "W-wait-"

But you have spent too long waiting for Harry Potter.

You are turning on your heel to leave when a hand catches the sleeve of your robe again and you are tempted to yank it out of his grasp but you don't.

You stand there, your back to him, thinking that you knew he would call you back, that you wouldn't have walked away knowing he had something to say, a small flicker of hope growing in the pit of your stomach.

He comes around to stand in front of you and you realize with a start that there are tears on his face. Before you realize what you're doing, you're reaching up to his face to wipe them away, as you have done so many times before, but this time he closes his eyes and leans into your touch, his face twisted into something that looks like pain.

You start to ask him what's wrong when he cuts you off, asking you if you meant what you said.

You know immediately what he is talking about.

It had been a week ago when enough was enough, when he was there, in your flat, his eyes stained with tears because he had watched someone die- a colleague- at work, and it had pained him so much that your own heart was breaking for him.

You couldn't stop the words as they tumbled out of your mouth to hang in the air.

Your first instinct was to run, but you didn't, because he needed you, his sobs now coming harder and faster, which was your fault, after all. He was probably feeling more guilty than ever, maybe sad that now he would have to lose his closest friend too, all because you couldn't keep your mouth shut.

After an hour of him crying into your chest and you stroking his hair, positively hating yourself, he got up and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He didn't look at you.

You let yourself out.

And now, here he is, asking you if you meant it, as if you would ruin a friendship like theirs for anything less than what you felt for him.

"Yes," you say simply. "I meant it."

He tugs on your sleeve.

He tells you to look at him, but you don't think that you can, don't think that you can face him as he tells you that he doesn't love you but still wants to be friends.

You face him anyway, because you can't deny him anything.

He's looking at you again, the same look as before, confusion and something else you can't place.

He takes a step forward and you suck in a breath, waiting for the words. You close your eyes, figuring they will be easier to hear if you're not looking at him, easier if you don't have to see him say them.

You are startled to feel a hand on your cheek, ever so gently, and you think that he is being nice, trying to comfort you.

A tear you didn't know was there slides down your cheek and disappears beneath his fingers.

"Draco," he whispers, and you almost come undone, because standing there with your eyes closed and his hand on your cheek, you can almost imagine him saying what you want to hear, and your eyes open, because you know that he's Harry, and you can tell everything he's thinking from his eyes.

You've always been able to read him, always known when he was upset, but now you have no idea what he's feeling as you look into his eyes and are met there with an emotion that you have never seen from him before.

For a second, just a second, you allow yourself to hope.

But then he opens his mouth to speak, and you know that you were _wrong wrong wrong._

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that," he says, and you want to tell him it's okay, that you will always forgive him, but you stay silent. You're sure that he already knows this anyway.

So instead, you look down at your feet, because you don't want to look at him, but you don't want him to see your face. You don't want him to see you cry.

He begins to speak, and you're hardly listening, thinking that you'll hear whatever he has to say and then maybe you can fix this. Maybe you can tell him that you lied, or were mistaken, that you didn't really love him.

Because of course being only Potter's best friend was torture, but you wouldn't trade it for anything.

He's saying that he's sorry that he left you there at the flat, that he was overwhelmed and upset and he just couldn't handle it, and you want to ask him how he thinks you felt, but you say nothing.

He tells you that it's been only a week and he misses you, that he hates seeing the empty couch where you used to always sleep, and you want to tell him that that couch is so damn uncomfortable and you only slept there night after night because you loved that he was the first person you saw in the morning, but you say nothing.

He tells you that he hates seeing you like this, and that he doesn't want to lose his best friend, and you lift your head up to tell him he doesn't have to, when he says something that stops you in your tracks.

"But I have to try this, just once."

He takes a step forward, and then another, and he's so close to you that you hold your breath for fear of scaring him away.

The hand on your cheek moves down to curl around your neck and then breathing is not a choice; you can't breathe, not even if you wanted to, because he has never been this close, not like this.

Your heart is beating like a drum, whether from his closeness or your inability to breathe you don't know, but you do know that if he doesn't kiss you now, if he pulls away, your heart is going to stop and break completely.

And that's when you feel his lips brush yours, and the dam breaks.

Your lips crush together, this time without teeth, and his lips are soft against yours, softer even than you imagined.

Harry Potter knows how to kiss, you conclude. He knows how to kiss so well that you think he's probably ruined you for anyone else. No other kiss will ever be as good as this kiss.

Not that you would ever want to kiss anyone else anyway.

His hand leaves the back of your neck and you think for a moment that it's over, but then he's putting his arms around your shoulders, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

You make a sound, feel it come out of your chest and up your throat and into his mouth, somewhere between a strangled sob and a moan and he pulls away, looking guilty, probably thinking that he has done the wrong thing and you cry out again, because you were right all along. He would never want to be with you, he could never love you, the kiss meant nothing to him compared to what it meant to you.

After today, you would go back to being _just friends_, and never speak of it again.

If this was the only chance you would ever have to kiss him, you would make it count.

Your heart skips a beat as you pull him back with a whimper, thinking that now you could never be anything but in love with Harry Potter. You could never look at him with anything other than love and longing for the rest of your life now that you knew what it was like to kiss him.

He tries to pull away again, tries to say your name, but you won't let him, not yet, this couldn't be over yet.

You need to kiss him until you don't love him anymore.

Your lips are harsh against his now, harsh against the side of his mouth and along his jaw and down his neck, and you know this, but you can't bring yourself to be gentle, not when he was never gentle with your heart.

This, you think, is why you spent so many years hating him.

You wanted him so badly that you hated him until you couldn't hate him anymore.

You hate him now, you hate him so much, and you tell him so, not with words, but with actions, and all of a sudden his back is up against the brick wall of the outside of the bar and you think for a second that you would be embarrassed if there were people around but it is just you and him, the streets deserted. You kiss him impossibly harder and then he says your name, clearly, like the crack of a whip.

Maybe it was his tone of voice, or maybe it was the way he had been gently pushing against your shoulders that you hadn't noticed until now, but it snaps you out if it.

You take three steps back, away from him, away from all of the emotions you can't control and put your head in your hands.

He follows you, prying your hands away from your face, apologizing, and you want to push him away and pull him closer, tell him that it's your fault, that you're sorry that now things can never be as they were.

You let out a sob and he pulls you into his chest, and you're reminded of the last night he cried exactly like this into you, and for some reason that triggers something in you, and now you're the one sobbing, crying so hard you can't breathe.

You can never catch your breath around him.

You suddenly feel your stomach drop and realize that he has disapparated the both if you back to his flat, and then he just lets you cry, his arms around your shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he says, rubbing soothing circles in your back.

"I shouldn't have said anything. I should have waited until we were home."

You does not miss the fact that he implies that this is your home too.

Harry pulls you along to the couch and you sit, curling into yourself rather than into him, because you can't stand any more comfort from him.

He reaches out to touch your shoulder and you shrug him off.

He says your name again, and it's like your ears just now came into focus.

He's been saying your name ever since you apparated here, over and over again. There is another disconnected sound over that, loud and horrible, and it takes you a second to realize that horrible sound is you, and your sobs cut off abruptly.

It is completely silent, and a minute, long and agonizing, passes before he speaks again.

"Please-" his voice breaks over the word, and he swallows and starts again.

"Please just let me explain."

You don't move to show that you are listening, but still you wait for him to continue. After a moment, he does. You can feel his eyes on you.

"When you told me that you- that you loved me, I was terrified. I was so scared that you were messing with me, or lying-"

"I would never lie about something like that," you say without looking at him, your voice hard.

You can hear his apprehension when he speaks again.

"I know that now. I just- it seemed too good to be true. Everything I had ever wanted- I couldn't believe it. That's why I ran. I'm sorry."

He pauses, and even without looking at him, you know that he is running a hand through his hair. If you had really been listening, if you hadn't just been waiting for Harry to kick you out, you would have realized what he was saying.

"And then you asked me to stay. You said we could be friends, but... Draco, look at me. You have to look at me or I can't say it. _Please._"

You turn only your head to look at him, your arms still wrapped around yourself. You don't want him to see how badly your hands are shaking.  
He lays a hand back on your cheek, and you want to push it off but you don't. You just look at him.

He lets out a nervous, almost defeated laugh.

"For the past week... all I've thought of was you. I can't get you out of my head. I usually can't, but now it's worse, because now when I think of you all I see is your face as I turned around and left you sitting there. And I..."

He runs a hand over his face, taking in a shaky breath.

"I couldn't tell you to stay and just be my friend. _Because I don't want to be your friend._"

You think that this is worse, that you would rather long for him and never have him for the rest of your life as long as he was by your side. But if he didn't even want to be friends, if you had to walk away and someday read in the Daily Prophet about his marraige to someone that was not you, you'd rather be dead.

You move to get up, and you can feel the tears starting again, but you just need to hold them in until you get outside.

"No, Merlin, Draco, that's not what I-"

As if not by his own consciousness, he moves forward and is kissing you, softly this time, so gently you don't have time to register what had happened until he pulls away. He starts to speak, but then your hands are in his hair, pulling him back, because talking is bad. Talking hurts, and you don't want to hear him say that he wants to be just friends, or worse, not your friend at all. He's kissing you as gently as you've ever been kissed, and there's your name again, coming out of his mouth and into yours, and he's pulling away again, and you're thinking this is it-

"Move in with me," he says, and for a second you don't process the words, but you don't have to, because he keeps going.

"Move in with me, and wake up next to me every morning, and fight with me about what shape to make the pancakes in, and kiss me before work, and kiss me after work, and kiss me always because it's all that I've ever wanted."

He looks up at you through his lashes and you want to tell him that that is not what friends do, that you don't just want to be his fuck buddy, when you finally, _finally_, recognize the emotion on his face, and you should have recognized it sooner, because it's identical to the one you wear when you look at him.

You're not sure how, but you end up kissing him again, and he meets you halfway with relief, and this is really the first kiss. The first time you know that you love him and that he loves you too, and that neither of you is going to leave the other after.

You feel tears prickle at the sides of your eyes again but now you let them fall freely, the salt mixing between your mouths and you realize then that you are not the only one crying.

He takes your face in his hands, tracing patterns on your cheeks, and you kiss and kiss and kiss like you're making up for lost time because you are.

"I love you."

You're not sure who broke the kiss to say it, but it doesn't matter as your meet in the middle again, your body turning towards his and opening up to welcome him- not only into your arms, but into your heart- like a flower.

You fit perfectly together, like a puzzle piece; you always did.

He pulls back to look at you, and you don't feverishly pull him back this time, because you know that there will be so many more kisses to come.

"I love you," he says, and it's definitely him this time, and it was definitely him the first time, and he tells you that he had always said it, in everything that he did, hoping that you would listen.

"Again," you whisper, and he complies, saying it between every kiss, showing it with the way his hands hold you, wrap around you, engulf you completely.

You have never been happier in your life.

"I love you," you say, and he echoes you, your mouths coming together again and again.  
"I love you,"  
"I love you,"  
"I love you,"  
"I love you,"  
"Merlin, I love you so much."

He's pulling you up off the couch, still kissing you as he walks backwards toward his room.

You break the kiss, just for a moment, suddenly insecure, thinking that he's probably done this so many times, probably had so many girls- and boys- in this room before, that it wouldn't even be special to him-

"Only ever wanted you," Harry says, as if reading your mind, and then you're kissing again, and Harry pushes the door open and you tumble in and you're laughing and stumbling and you fall back into bed.

It's not perfect, but no one's first time is.

He is so gentle with you, and you never feel unloved or like a notch on his bedpost, not one time.  
He falls asleep first, exhausted, his arms around you, his head on your chest.

The last thought in your head before you fall asleep is that you won't ever have to sleep on the couch again.

_**fin.**_


End file.
